Vroom, Vroom, Vroom!

A description of my weekend's end

is not far from here, you see.

It's prescription was around the bend,

of fun and strict hilarity.

So listen well, my dear blog-readers,

to the story that I tell.

'Tis fell to you, to be a leader,

and warn others of my hell,

Oops I mean, my joy and bliss,

of the days fast gone by!

That's what I meant, I said, it was this,

this bliss, and more! Oh dear (Le Sigh)...

Okay - that's about all the rhyme I can pull out of my fluffy white derriere at the present moment. However, should any tidbit of interest come flying out - I'll be sure to let you know.

Okay - that went weirder than usual.

Anyhoo - back to my "Wild Weekend of Weird."

After driving my car all week Harry came home and pronounced "Holy Mother of God in Heaven, my blessed wife shall not be subjected to the Horrors of that Vehicle, ANY LONGER!" He then cried and made the heavens weep as well. Well, either that happened, or he said: "Hey, maybe we should look for a new car for you, it's about time, and yours is getting old." But who can remember such details?

So we hopped on Jumbo the Denali (whom I miss this week as I ride Dumbo, Jumbo's floppy earred, less coordinated, son) and go to test-drive Mustangs. Oh yeah, baby. MUSTangs. Mhm, hmm.

Where was I? Oh yeah, so I test drive a weird colored one, GT fully-loaded, custom dash package, pony center cap and a stereo that would make Jesse James himself smile (did I lose ya? Okay - reread last sentence as "car was pretty. Holly like.") and crunched some numbers. About this time I see it. A 50th Anniversary T-bird. Silver, black top and a puddle of drool next to it where I stood. But it was taken. Sold. Gone. The choir of angels that were singing in my ear dropped dead when this was announced.

We then leave and go look at other options. I test-drove an older Crossfire and took it back faster than you could say "Holy Cannolies, Batman! This thing smells like sour milk and berries! EW!"

After using the jaws of life can-opener to extract myself from the Crossfire's constrains I dragged Harry back to Jumbo and began talking of other options. I said, "Why can't I just have your grandmother's car - she NEVER drives it!" It's a gorgeous piece of garage decor (seeing as how this beautiful machine has only 1,000 miles on it) and - I'm pausing for emphasis here - it's a glass topped 2003 Corvette - white with RED interior. Bestill my beating heart!

Last option to consider: the Mazda RX-8 - it's bliss on a stick shift (but comes AT, as well) - gets good gas mileage and is not all together too expensive. And - I can get BLUE. AND fulfill my dream of having the license plate: SMURF YOU or SMRF OFF, or SMURFED. Yes. You got it. Oh, baby.

We went for a walk last night around our neighborhood and I came up with two things: Number one: Fushia is a color and NOT a paint choice for one's living room and, Number two: exercise sucks. Yes, it does. It sucks big sweaty leotards. After walking close to a mile last night I realized that my panties had crept up a crevice it did not belong in, and that my new Air Max 360's had burned off the skin on the top of both my big toes. So what did exercise get me? A free thong and burnt piggies - NOT a good combo.

Let that be a lesson to ya.